While You Were Freaking!
by Libertine
Summary: As the result of an unfortunate mis-spell, Dean, Neville and Hermione accidentally charm Harry's glasses to see through people's clothes. Subsequently, Harry manhandles Draco, Ginny attempts to exact revenge, and Pansy and Blaise act like a pair of spoil
1. Those were your balls, Malfoy.

**Title: **While You Were Freaking!

**Author: **Libertine & TRLDM

**Genre:** Humor, Drama, Adventure.

**Pairing: **Dean/Hermione, Pansy/Ron, Harry/Draco

**Rating: **NC-17, although really, it's no worse than R.

**Homepage: **http://kissaki.freeservers.com/lhps

**Mailing list: **http://groups.yahoo.com/group/veelainc

**Disclaimer: **JKR & Warner Bros. own the characters & Places.  I'm making no money from this.

**Summary: **Harry touches Draco's testicles, Draco gets angsty, and there is a resolution of sorts.  Oh, hooray, hurrah, not.

*** * * ***

**I**

It wasn't often that Hermione Granger was faced with a problem she couldn't solve.

The Ministry's Auror entrance examination comprised a series of rigorous trials which each aspiring Auror could undertake at their leisure.  Testing initiative, skill and general knowledge, these compulsorary assessments were graded in terms of pass or fail: if you didn't make it past one hurdle, you had to continue doing it until you succeeded, or alternately, gave up.  Thus far, over a testing period of six months, Hermione had been instructed to neutralise the firey breath of a dragon with hiccups, cured various magical and non-magical ailments, showed herself to be well versed in all areas of magical history, and had sat through fourty three exams in politics.  

These were difficult tasks, certainly, but completing them successfully was simply an exercise in memory.  She had only to recall her lessons and her extracurricular research to negotiate each problem.  Her sole threat was posed by her competitors, and Hermione -- who'd been top of her classes since day one at Hogwarts School for Witches and Wizards -- wasn't perturbed by them in the slighest.  

The rules of the examination decreed that only one student from each magical school would be accepted directly into the training program each year, and aside from Hermione, three other Hogwarts pupils had their eye on the presitigous graduate course: Parvarti Patil, Mandy Brocklehurst, and the infuriating Draco Malfoy.  Parvarti, as far as Hermione knew, was still stuck on the dragon task, while Mandy seemed likely to pull out after being exposed to a witch with a bad case of chicken pox.  Malfoy was keeping his progress secret, but Hermione couldn't for the life of her imagine that he could have passed the politics exams -- especially as these were carefully designed to weed out any applicants with an unseemly predisposition toward the Dark Arts.

So, with her various triumphs behind her, Hermione Granger had ventured into the final section of the exams, the initiative quotient, feeling exceedingly confident of victory.

Only to find herself completely stumped.

The final test was a locked case, no larger than a shoe box.  Using whatever means she deemed necessary, Hermione's task was discover what was inside it.  She was allowed to bring it back to school to work on it, but so far she'd come up with no immediate solution.  The case seemed impervious to magic: it didn't respond to opening spells, charms, hexing, cursing or, Hermione discovered, being thrown out of the window of the Gryffindor common room.

"I don't understand," she complained to her boyfriend Dean Thomas and her friend Neville Longbottom, both of whom had been kind enough to rescue the case from the bushes below the tower.  "I've tried _everything_.  It's completely impossible."  Still clutching the newly reacquired case, Hermione threw up her hands, and the boys darted forwards instinctively -- afraid the case would follow the same plumetting trajectory it had only a few minutes before.  

It didn't, and Neville breathed out a sigh of relief.

"They didn't say you had to open it," Dean said slowly.  "Why don't you try making it transparent?  You could see the contents then."

"I've already tried that," Hermione snapped. "It's completely resistant to magic."

Dean rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  "I saw this show once," he began hesitantly.  "On the telly --- you know?  It was about super heros and the sort, my kid brother used to watch it all the time.  Cartoons.  One of the episodes was about this evil guy could see through walls with x-ray specs... they were like goggles... he used to rob banks, meet women and stuff..."  He paused; Hermione was making wind-it-up motions with her wrist.  Sighing, Dean sped quickly to the point: "So what I'm thinking is, 'Mione," he said, "why don't you charm something to make it able to see through things?  That's not really going to affect the box itself, is it?"

In leiu of everything else Hermione had tried, this seemed like a remarkably intelligent idea.  The two boys exchanged nods, then looked patiently towards Hermione as she mentally weighed up the pros and cons of such a venture.  "I think..." she began absently, but didn't finish the thought.  Rising to her feet, she held the box in the centre of her palm, fingers spread outwards, and studied it from all angles.  With her brow furrowed and her lips set in a determined, thin line, she looked quite the picture of scientific curiosity.

"You think...?" Dean prompted, to her left.

"I think I love you, Dean," said Hermione seriously, without looking up.  "I really do." 

"Wait and see if it works, first," Dean advised her, a wry smile on his face.  "Before you start promising me your first born child, that is..."  He glanced around the room for something to charm, but Neville (who'd found their little exchange profoundly embarrassing) was already one step ahead of him, scrabbling to divert the conversation from romantic wufflings of any sort.  A half hour previously, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had staggered off to the showers following Quidditch practice, and Harry had left his glasses lying on the common room table.  Neville snatched up the discarded spectacles and passed them nervously across to Hermione.

"Will they do, 'Mione?" he asked.

"Wait a minute... they're Harry's," Dean protested, spotting the triumphant gleam in Hermione's eyes.  "You should ask first.  I don't reckon he'd like to come back to find his glasses tampered with."

"It's all in the name of magic," said Hermione firmly.  This close to success, she had no wish to have matters slowed down by mere trivialities of conscience --- and she was positive Harry wouldn't begrudge her the use of his National Heath spectacles.  For the first time, it seemed that her victory over the damned case was within reach.  "Now, what was that spell again?" she mused aloud, turning the glasses over in one hand, reaching for her wand with the other.  "Ah, I remember... _Translumos Speriphus_."

At her words, a jolt of bright light sprung from the tip of her wand and breifly suffused the lenses of the glasses with a myriad of sparkling colours.  Neville gasped aloud, clapping both hands over his mouth; Dean simply whistled under his breath, impressed by the display.  Hermione grinned, despite herself.  Performing a little curtsey for the benefit of the boys, she held the charmed glasses up to the box and stared at it through them.

But instead of seeing straight through to the inside of the box, as she had hoped, all she saw was the familiar solid metal side.  

"Damn!  Oh, _goddamn it!_"  

She was so frustrated that she only barely managed to stop herself from throwing the glasses across the room.

"No luck, baby?" Dean asked, with a groan.  Very gently he pried Harry's glasses from her hands before she could do them any damage, and set them back upon the table.  His girlfriend buried her face in her lap and swore.

"It's just not fair!" she hissed.

"Don't worry, Hermione," said Neville kindly, patting her on the back.  "I'm sure you'll get it open before Malfoy does."

Hermione only growled in response.

*

Unbeknownst to Hermione and her friends, one other student had already worked out how to open the box.  Draco Malfoy sat crosslegged in the Slytherin common room, idly tossing his box from had to hand.  Compared to all the other tasks he'd been set in the Auror examinations, this last one had been a walk in the park.  When he'd originally opened it, less that fifteen minutes since he'd gotten it, the little box had made a high pitched cheering noise and canned laughter spilled from its interior.  Within was a letter of congratulations, bearing the stamp of approval from the Ministry of Magic.  

If Draco had actually wanted to join the Auror's training program, he would have sent off this letter as soon as he'd recovered it -- but Draco had no such aspirations. Currently he was using the box as a makeshift pencil stand until he worked out what to do.

One thing was certain, however -- he wasn't going to join the Ministry of Magic.  The idea of signing up for this ridiculous course had been his father's: Lucius Malfoy had thought it prudent to have an Auror on the inside.  Not only would it increase the man's respectability in wizard society, but it would also make him all the more invaluable to the Dark Lord, and Draco would become no more than another political tool, a petty spy for his slippery-skinned parent.  

Lucius, as always, was playing both sides, much to Draco's increasing disgust.  Now that he was old enough to gain a mature perspective on the Death Eater situation, Draco found himself more and more disenchanted with the political games of his father.  A monetary donation there, a little dark magic there, a bit of back-stabbing to the Ministry and then some snooping for the Death Eaters -- Lucius was constantly caught up in the idiocies of maintaining the balance between his sympathies towards the conservative and the radical magical parties.  

And all to what end, precisely? Draco often wondered.  On the off chance that one of them might actually win the war?  Draco had made a firm decision at the start of this year.  When he decided once and for all what he wanted to be, then he'd stick to it -- there'd be no wheedling and boot-licking for him.  He'd be respected for his own merits; he wouldn't stoop to paying for favours.

It was most unfortunate, then, that he'd proven to be the first to open the Auror's box.  He hadn't even _meant_ to open it -- he'd just been fooling around, wondering if the Ministry were so stupid as to make it that easy...

And, they had.

Draco supposed he'd just have to wait until the Mud-blood Granger worked it out, though she was certainly taking her time about it.  Perhaps he'd have to give her a hint.

_Just imagine that.  A Slytherin helping a Gryffindor -- now there's a turn up for the books..._

It was all too painfully obvious to Draco that the Gryffindors at Hogwarts were growing up to be a slovenly lot.  A combination of smuggled drugs and a lackdaisical attitude to homework had turned the previously formidable house into the laughing stock of the school.  Lately, the only adventures the Gryffindors got involved in were quests to the kitchens for munchies.  They'd grown lazy and stupid in the absence of any external challenges.  Within the safe enclosure of Hogwart's walls, it was easy to forget the trials of those outside, it was easy to pretend that everything was the same as it always had been.  

Although the threat of Voldemort's return was the focus of all the local newspapers, the politics of the wizard world seemed so very far away.  In Draco's jaundiced opinion, the Gryffindors were fools; they were so concentrated on the facile aspects of life that they completely failed to register the bigger picture -- a bigger picture which Draco wanted to have a hand in altering.

Aimlessly, he glanced across the common room.  Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were sitting by the opposite wall on one of the sturdy old couches, idly chattering about boys-boys-boys, their usual topic of choice.  Draco was mildly chagrined to note that his name hadn't surfaced yet in their adolescent babble, but not overly so.  He and Pansy had recently had a falling out -- a particularly harsh one.  Since then, Draco hadn't spoken more than a word to Pansy, and she in turn had taken great pains to publically snub him every chance she could.

It was all the Weasel's fault.  That little Gryffindor bastard had been dating Pansy now for almost a month, and Pansy talked about him endlessly.  Reputedly, there were photographs of the Weasel on Pansy's bedstand, and she wore a heart shaped locket with the Weasel's moniker on it.  

It was enough to make a Slytherin sick.

"Why the Weasel?" Draco had asked her.  "Merlin's beard, it's almost as bad as dating Potter."

"His freckles are so dreamy," was Pansy's airy response.

"Those are pimples, you fool," Draco had been unable to resist replying.

A high pitched squeal, a cold smirk and a hard slap later, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were no longer friends. 

Pansy and the Weasel.  The whole affair frustrated Draco intensely, mainly because he'd expected to end up with Pansy.  Married, rich, with a brood of snotty nosed pug-faced children... that was the future of the Malfoy heir.  It wasn't precisely what Draco _wanted_ out of life, but it was what was bound to happen -- or had been, until that acne-riddled little bastard had stepped in on Draco's turf.

"He's such a darling to me," Pansy was whispering to Blaise now, in a voice perfectly pitched to seem secretive and yet remain audible to Draco.  "He brought me flowers the other day, did you see them?  They were lovely... he's a real romantic, Blaise.  I've never met a man like him before..."

Rising abruptly to his feet, Draco snapped the Auror box closed, hard, and stalked out of the room.  There was only so much Weasel-warbling he could take at any one time.

The sounds of the girls' laughter rung in his ears as he slammed the door behind him.

*

A well-washed Harry Potter tumbled out of the Gryffindor showers a few minutes before Ron, and stumbled blindly off to find his glasses.  He found them exactly where he'd left them, lying on the table in the middle of the common room.  The world resolved into a clearer focus, and Harry blinked myopically around him.  Neville Longbottom appeared to be the sole other occupant of the room; he was curled up under his blanket on a chair, flipping idly through a comic book.  He offered Harry a small smile, wriggling his fingers.

"Hi, Harry.  Hermione said she'd see you in the library -- she's still working on the box thing."

"Still hasn't opened it?"  Harry grinned, running a hand through his damp hair, separating the strands.  "How's Dean coping?"

"Oh, I don't know."  Neville never much liked talking about other people's relationships; he flushed deeply, and wriggled further under his blankets.  Harry suppressed a laugh as Neville tugged the material over one bare leg.  Evidently Neville had just come out of the shower too and had decided to drip-dry -- a rather daring move from a boy who, even at sixteen, still refused to take off his shirt in public.  "I was just told to tell you, is all," Neville mumbled nervously, his fingers crinkling the pages of the comic book.  "Dean didn't say anything..."

He was cut off when the common room door banged open noisily, behind Harry.  Turning, Harry discovered a stark naked Ron smirking at him in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest.  Harry almost burst out laughing at the sight.  Having spent many holidays at the Burrow, Harry considered himself to be practically Ron's brother, and nudity had never been an issue in the Weasley's household -- especially when sharing a bathroom between seven.  But if Ron hadn't even donned a towel before leaving the shower rooms, this meant that he'd just walked naked along a corridor with an open entrance to the girl's dormitory.  Lavender and Parvati would have had a field day if they'd caught him.

"Something funny, Poh-tah?" Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.  His mimick of Professor Snape's voice just made Harry laugh harder.

"You idiot, Ron.  What are you thinking?"

Ron shrugged.  "I don't know," he said.  "You tell me?"

"Just put some clothes on, would you?" Harry said, grinning.  Moving forwards, he gave Ron a shove in the chest.

"What?"  Ron pushed him away, and made a face.  "I am wearing clothes, midget boy," he said, frowning.  "Oh wait, don't tell me. You're picturing me naked, right?"  He laughed.

"No, I'm telling you to put on some clothes, before bloody Lavender walks in.  Geeze, Ron.  Have a little common decency, eh?  Think of the children."

"Huh?"  Ron took a step back, tilting his head to one side.  Harry suddenly got the feeling he'd said entirely the wrong thing.  Ron's expression was one of confusion and worry; he was watching Harry as if he expected him to keel over on the spot.  "Uh, have you been overdoing it, Harry?" Ron asked cautiously.  "Didn't get a bump on your head during the practise, did you?  I mean... you're not serious, right?"

"Of course I'm serious.  The girls will freak if they see you."  Harry glanced back at Neville, looking for support.  "Isn't that right, Nev?"

But Neville only shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know what you're talking about' manner, and went back to his comic book.

"Harry," said Ron, carefully putting a hand on Harry's shoulder.  "Maybe you should sit down for a bit."

"What?  Why?"

Ron bit his lip.  "I think the sun might have addled your brain..."

"I'm fine!" Harry almost yelled the words, surprised by the strength and suddeness of his anger.  "I just think you should get dressed.  What's wrong with you?  Heck, scare the girls if you want to... I don't care..."  He teetered there a moment, swaying between the two of them.  Had Ron and Neville plotted to make fun of him? he wondered.  The idea of the two of them joining forces to play mind games only compounded Harry's rage.  If it wasn't enough to be teased by the Slytherins, now the Gryffindors were ganging up on him...  

Harry's good mood was ruined; he pulled away roughly from Ron's touch.

"Harry, for goodness sake," Ron began.

"Oh, shut up," Harry snapped, nudging him out of the way.  "I'll be in the library when you both decide to stop being idiots."

He slammed out of the room.  Ron and Neville exchanged perplexed looks, and Neville nipped at his lower lip with his teeth.  When the silence between them became intolerable, Neville found himself forced to break it.  "Harry seems a bit... unhappy?" he tried, hopelessly, returning his gaze to the door, which was still jittering on its hinges and letting out annoyed metal squeakings at being treated in such a forceful manner.

"He's bloody nuts, he is," said Ron, shaking his head incredulously.

"Hermione did say yesterday that he was going insane," said Neville agreeably.  "Either that or it's impotence, she said."

Ron spluttered.  "Hermione said it's _what_?"

Neville winced at this outburst, squeezed his knees to his chest protectively.  "Perhaps that wasn't the word she used," he admitted in a smaller voice, unsure.  "Um, but it was definately imp-.  Imp.  Imp something, I think.  Or maybe..." he was looking thoroughly confused by now, "maybe she didn't say that at all..."

"Neville..."

"I know," said Neville, hanging his head.  "I know.  Sorry I'm not any help."

"Wasn't going to say that at all, actually," said Ron, quirking a grin.  "I was going to ask you if you'd like to head down to the kitchens with me.  I've got a hankering for some munchies..."

*

_Where did that little huff come from?_ Harry asked himself, as he sulked his way along the corridors which led from the dormitory.  It had been a fleeting rage; two minutes later he felt sheepish and stupid; he would have died for the chance to go back into the room and take it all back.  Only his pride prevented him from doing so... well, his pride and the knowledge that if it came to a confrontation, it was likely he'd wig out again and make things even worse.  

For the past few weeks Harry had thought of himself in metaphors: a bomb ready to go off, a dam on the verge of bursting; but even the cliches couldn't come close to expressing that trapped, frustrated feeling, all that pent up emotion looking for an outlet.  He'd be happy as a sandboy one minute, and the next, he'd be coming close to blows with his best friend in the world.

'It's your scar,' Hermione had told him the day before, ever ready to provide a rational diagnosis for his ailment.  'Is it hurting?'

'No,' Harry snapped.  'Never felt better.'

'There you have it then,' she'd said.  'It's because nothing is happening, Harry.  You're used to living an exciting life now, a life when everything happens at once, when there's always something to do.  But all there is these days is classwork: no magic conspiracies, no detective work for us to do.  Just Snape on Mondays, Trewlaney on Tuesdays, Bims on Wednesday, McGonagall on...'

'I don't need you to recite my timetable for me, thank you,' Harry grunted.

'It's _boredom_, Harry,' Hermione said, ignoring him.  'That's what's wrong with you.  Go out and fly your broom about the grounds a bit and you'll feel much better.'

Harry had taken her advice and immediately tramped off for a quick pre-breakfast flight.  To Hermione's credit, it had worked for a while: he'd been quite civil for the rest of the day, at least until that idiot Gregory Goyle had accidentally-on-purpose tripped Neville over on the way into Transfiguration that afternoon.  The fight which had ensued after class was over cost Harry a handful of hair and twenty house points, but the adrenaline rush had been worth it.  

Now, as he wandered aimlessly through the school, Harry wondered if he shouldn't try and find Goyle again.  He was fairly sure he could start another brawl without too much difficulty.

_Not that Hermione would be pleased about that,_ he thought morosely, rounding the corner.  _House points.  As if they were more important than..._

But he couldn't think what house points _were_ more important than, so he just kept walking, head down, dragging his heels along the stone floor.  His meandering had so far taken him past the Transfiguration classrooms, and now he was heading through to the more dimly lit areas of the school.  The architects who had built Hogwarts evidently prided mystery over practicality: the halls were filled with random turns and twists, but judging by the more scholarly looking portraits hanging in this area, Harry knew he was nearing the school library.  Perhaps a book would calm him down, he thought dryly.  Something about the war and people getting their heads chopped off, that would be just...

There was a naked boy standing in the corridor outside the library.  

_Spltfhr, _went Harry's brain, and his feet stumbled into each other involuntarily, bringing him to an abrupt halt.

He stared.

._Spltfhr?  Spltfhr!_

Harry continued to stare, while his brain made odd farting noises and threatened to leak out of his nose.  The boy, however, was suffering no such embarrassment: he was facing the wrong way, completely unaware that his state of nudity was being observed by a second party.  With his back to Harry, he rested one hand against the library wall, his shoulders stooped: a casual pose.  Blonde hair, clipped short and neat around his ears, complimented his pale and utterly flawless skin.  He was slim, almost too slim -- the line of his spine and the ridges of his shoulderblades pressed sharply against his skin -- but his arms and legs were wirey with muscle.  Harry's breath caught suddenly and unexpectedly in his throat.  

This wasn't like seeing Ron naked at all.  

No, it was embarrassing, incredibly, horribly embarrassing in all the worst possible ways, and Harry didn't dare to let his gaze slip below the boy's waist.

What was this strange boy doing here?  Had Hogwarts suddenly become a nudist colony, and no one had bothered to tell him?  Harry averted his eyes shamefully, wondering what to do.  Should he walk on past as if the boy didn't exist, or find a teacher, or ask the boy to... to put some damned clothes on before someone... did something...  

Harry rubbed at the lenses of his glasses.  Perhaps he was simply dreaming -- and all this was part of some bizarre fantasy his mind had conjured up.  It seemed as rational an explaination as any, and to test it, Harry pinched hard at the skin of his upper arm.

"Ow!" he yelped.

He looked back up.  The boy was still there.  Definately not a dream, then.  Harry was on the verge of bolting to Dumbledore's office when the naked boy turned, ever so slowly, and fixed him with a cool, grey-eyed stare.

"See something you like, Potter?"

_Malfoy._

"Oh, god," said Harry.

"Yes, I am rather," Malfoy sneered at him, jauntily pushing out his hip and resting his hand upon it.  Certain parts of the Malfoy anatomy swung with the motion.  Certain parts of the Potter anatomy shrunk back into his groin, vowing to never see the light of day again.  Involuntarily, Harry clenched his buttocks.  "Funny that you should be here," Malfoy continued, with another immodest quirk of his pelvis.  "I never knew you were the intellectual type.  Or are you still trying to get into the flea-ridden pants of the Mud-blood?"

Harry opened his mouth, and shut it again.  His eyes were saucer-wide, his mouth parched.  Malfoy, taking advantage of Harry's apparent discomfiture, sashayed forwards.  "Well, don't let me stop you on your little quest," he drawled.  "But don't blame me if you find yourself scratching later."  He waved a hand airily.

Bounce.

Harry squeaked.

A confused expression passed over Malfoy's face.  He glanced quickly over his shoulder, as if he expected to see some giant, monstorous creature towering over him: a cogent explaination for Harry's horror.  The corridor behind him remained empty.  His brow creased into a frown as he returned his gaze to Harry.  "Oh, don't tell me," he hissed.  "The great Harry Potter now has visions, hm?  Or, wait.  The Boy Who Lived can see evil spirits.  Or... no, I have it."  He clicked his fingers infront of Harry's glasses.  "Voldemort's back, right?  Potter's got a wittle hurty wurty in the old scar-y warry?"

Harry squeaked again.  Malfoy was so close Harry could smell his breath, could smell Malfoy's bloody aftershave, and even closing his eyes didn't make it any better.  Malfoy's pale chest was an arm's length away, but to Harry it felt as if Malfoy was pushed up against him.  All the Dark Arts lessons Harry had attended over his years at Hogwarts had failed to prepare him for dealing with the terrible spectre of a naked Malfoy.  He felt violated, on some strange and utterly disturbing level.  But for all the life in him, he couldn't bring himself to push Malfoy out of his way, because to do so would mean actually *touching* Malfoy.

Tentively, he withdrew a step.  Malfoy advanced a step.  Harry backed away a second time, and felt the shock of a wall at his back.

_Nice going, Potter,_ he cursed himself.

"My word," Malfoy purred, sliding even closer, until Harry could barely breathe from the tension.  "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd almost think that you were afraid of me, Potter.  Heard on the old mandrakevine that I'm a Death Eater?  That I'm a powerful Dark Arts mage?  That I'm the son of Voldemort himself?  I thought you'd be smarter than to listen to rumours -- then again, Gryffindors have never been the brightest sparks, have they?"

Harry tried to burrow into the wall with his shoulders.  Malfoy laughed.  He rested one hand against the wall, directly beside Harry's head.  "This is really too good," he murmured.  "I wonder what I should do.  There's you, in your little state, and then there's me, finally at the advantage, and then..."

Afterwards, Harry couldn't really remember what moved him to perform such a desperate act.  In retrospect, he could appreciate the fact that it could have easily intensified the situation.  But in that moment, all Harry could think of was the thought of Malfoy pressing him, pushing at him, doing unspeakable _things_ to him, and caught in the confliction of fight and flight, Harry hadn't the wit to consider all the available options.  He simply wanted Malfoy away, a long way away, and in a fit of panic, he'd followed his impulses and done the first thing which came into his head.

He'd reached down, gripped Malfoy's bouncing anatomy in his hand, and given it a firm, admonitory squeeze.

*** * * ***


	2. What to do with a problem like Hermione....

**Title: **While You Were Freaking!

**Author: **Libertine & TRLDM

**Genre:** Humor, Drama, Adventure.

**Pairing: **Dean/Hermione, Pansy/Ron

**Rating: **NC-17, although really, it's no worse than R.

**Homepage: **http://libertine.veela-inc.net

**Mailing list: **http://groups.yahoo.com/group/veelainc

**Disclaimer: **JKR & Warner Bros. own the characters & Places.  I'm making no money from this.

**Summary: **Harry touches Draco's testicles, Draco gets angsty, and there is a resolution of sorts.  Oh, hooray, hurrah, not.

** * * * ***

**II**

Weakly: "What happened to me...?"

"Well, we were hoping to hear your side of things before we came to any conclusions about the matter.  We've already heard Malfoy's."

"...oh?  What did he say?"

"Apparently, you started talking in the corridor outside the library."

"Yes, that's right."

"And then you grabbed him by the balls."

"...well, I guess so."

"So he broke your nose."

"Ah."  Harry tentatively raised his hands to his face.  His nose was swollen, but healing fast -- he could practically feel the bones knitting beneath his fingertips.  Best not to touch it, he felt, and risk having his nose set on an angle.  He lay still, eyes on the ceiling.  

Beside him, his friends exchanged worried looks.  Upon hearing the news that Malfoy had knocked Harry unconscious, they'd all raced to his bedside in the infirmary to make sure he was okay.  The sight of Harry lying there, pale, comatose and bloody-nosed, had sent Neville into a fit of tears.  Currently, Neville was sniffling into Dean's jacket, while Ron, Seamus and Hermione, squeezed shoulder to shoulder in the small infirmary room, tried to work out what was going on.  

"He admitted to it," Hermione managed to say, in a hoarse voice, as if she couldn't quite believe her own ears.  "He actually... did it."

"Ours not to reason why," said Dean, who tended to take such strange events in his stride.  He patted at Neville's head.  "Cheer up, kid," he said, stooping slightly to whisper into the boy's ear.  "A broken nose never killed anyone."

"What?  Ours not to reason why?  Come on, Dean," Ron said crossly.  "You don't just grab people's balls for no reason.  Especially not Malfoy's balls.  Harry's been acting weird ever since the Quidditch game.  I'll just bet he's under the influence of some dark power."

"Under the influence, yes," Seamus chuckled.  "The dark power part is debateable.  Or wait... is 'dark power' a euphemism?"

"Oh gosh," said Neville, detaching himself from Dean's chest for a moment to clasp a hand over his mouth.  "Maybe he's gay."

"Malfoy is fairly attractive, in the right light," Dean mused aloud.

"That is, no light at all," Seamus quipped.

"Oh gosh," said Neville again.  "Are you gay, too, Dean?"

Dean muffled a laugh.  Hermione cleared her throat noisily.  "It's very obvious that we have a problem here," she told the boys.  "A very severe problem.  So I feel it's essential that we all band together and put a stop to it.  I vote we create a study group.  We can spend a few hours in the library every night and try to find out exactly what is wrong with Harry, and then we'll..."

"For godsake, 'Mione, he grabbed a guy's balls," said Seamus, grinning.  "It's not as if You Know Who made him do it."

"We don't know that, Seamus!  How do you know that for certain?"

"Good grief!"  Despite his aching head, Harry felt it was his duty to interject before the issue was blown even further out of proportion.  "I am still here, you know.  You can ask me why I did it."

"Yes, Harry, but we didn't want to bother you," said Hermione soothingly.

Harry bit his lip.  Hard.

"Alright, Harry," said Seamus, leaning partway over the bed.  Even close-up, the boy's face was a blur of freckles and blonde hair.  "What made you grab Malfoy by the nuts, if it wasn't... interference from some dark power?"  He smirked at Hermione, who huffed.

Harry opened his mouth.  'He was naked, and I thought he wanted to do things to me,' was what he wanted to say.  However, now that he actually ran the words over in his mind, Harry realised that this might not be such a good idea.  Not a good idea at all, really.  There were some things he could say to his friends, and there were some things... well, there were some things that Harry would much prefer to keep to himself.  Given that Malfoy evidently hadn't mentioned his nakedness to the Gryffindor Inquisition, Harry felt it would be rather imprudent of him to open that particular barrel of worms.  

Let sleeping dogs lie, and let naked Malfoys spit fallacies through their nasty little teeth.  At least Harry's nose was healing, which was more than Harry hoped for the Malfoy family jewels.  Harry supposed he had some good blackmail material to fall back on, at any rate.  The next time Draco shoved Neville's books out of his hands on the way to class, Harry would be right behind him with a smart, 'Oh, you've decided to put on clothes today' comment.

Well, perhaps the comment wasn't very smart after all.  But Harry was sure he could work on that. 

"Malfoy was trying to lure me into a fight," Harry said aloud.  "I figured I'd deal with it in a way he'd remember."

Hermione let out a disgusted splutter, while the boys burst into laughter.  "You got that much right, Harry," Dean said eventually.  "The boy's in shock."

*

Draco felt dirty.  Extremely dirty.  Even the bath wasn't helping.  He'd scrubbed at his genitals now for the better part of an hour, scrubbed until the skin was raw, until he didn't imagine it would be possible to piss straight for a month, until he'd drawn blood -- but above the pain he could still remember -- _visualise_ -- Potter's skinny little fingers wrapping neatly around his testicles.

"Bastard.  Bastard.  Bastard."

He'd been violated.  He'd been violated by Potter.  His father would hear about this, of course -- the teachers would have to provide a reason for Draco suddenly snapping and punching The Boy Who Lived in the face.  Then his mother would faint and Lucius Malfoy would write a stern letter to the school, and Draco would be plunged into a world of shame, not that he wasn't in one already.  

Word spread fast around the corridors of Hogwarts.  Pansy had passed him earlier in the corridor with some of her air-brained companions; they'd pointed at him as one and burst into hysterical giggles.  Vincent and Gregory were avoiding him like the plague: it was fine to hang out with Draco when he was lording it up around the Slytherin dormitory, but it wasn't fine to hang with him after he'd been manhandled by Harry Potter.  Even Millicent, who'd had a crush on him since first year, hadn't been able to look him in the eye when he'd crawled past her to the shower rooms.  It was as if he'd been tainted, somehow.  

Only the bloody Gryffindors had cut him any slack.  A few of them had been around to hear him shakingly confess to what he'd done infront of Professor McGonagall, and they'd looked just as horrified by Harry's actions as Draco himself was.  Well, the Mud-blood and her boyfriend had been horrified -- the blonde Irish one, whose name Draco had never been bothered to learn, nearly burst a lung laughing.

The bastard.  The bastard_s_.  

If only Draco had thought up some witty response, some quick one-liner, just to prove that he hadn't been affected at all by bloody Potter's sudden and unexpected show of affection.  But when he opened his mouth he'd gibbered, actually gibbered, and his lower lip started to tremble so hard that McGonagall, showing a rather uncharacteristic concern, told him to go to his room.  He hadn't been punished for it; perhaps she'd realised that having Potter clinging to your gonads against your will was punishment enough...

Draco wiped his face, his hands, worked a bar of soap between them until the suds frothed up and over his knees like a fountain.

How many people had seen it? he wondered.  None had witnessed the actual _act_, of course, and for that much he could be thankful.  But his confession?  He counted them mentally: the three Gryffindors, four Slytherins from the year below, a smattering of Hufflepuffs -- at least six of the little bastards, and there were almost a dozen Ravenclaws.  That all added up to twenty four loose tongues wagging about the school; Draco wouldn't have been surprised if that bloody hairy gameskeeper had learnt of his 'encounter' by now.

They'd talk about this for years.  Years and years... he'd be the shame of the Malfoy family.  

Perhaps the only way to rid himself of the Potter-taint was to perform a quick emasculation spell on himself.  

For a few minutes, staring thoughtfully at his wand lying on the edge of the bath-tub, Draco seriously considered this option.  It wasn't as if he'd get anything interesting to do with the damned organ, now that Pansy Parkinson was marrying into poverty...

"Malfoy?"

Draco jumped, stumbled about on his knees, and accidentally splashed out most of the water in the tub before managing to get his hands on a towel. The voice had come from behind the flimsy screen that walled off each individual bath.  Through the corrugated surface Draco could just make out a squat black patch of robes, above which was a pale circle of a face.  Framing the face was a thatch of hair so red that it could have only belonged to a Weasley.  Given the pitch of the voice, this one was a female Weasley, and almost certainly an envoy of her brother, come to gloat over the sad state of Draco's affairs.  Rising as imperiously as he could while balancing on slippery porcelain, Draco wrapped his towel around his waist and called out a tentative: "What?"

"McGonagall sent me down here to see if you were alright.  If you wanted counselling, she said."

Was nothing sacred these days?  Was there no privacy in this hell hole of a school that some Gryffindor do-gooder couldn't penetrate?  Unsteadily Draco slid out of the bath, water puddling at his feet, and began to grope around for his clothes.  "You can tell McGonagall that I have absolutely no intention of being counselled by her, or anyone else," he snapped.  "And before you ask, no, you _cannot_ come in to see how I am doing.  Nor will I be up for any quick photo opportunities in the near future.  Is that clear?"

Behind the screen the Weasley laughed.  Draco concentrated on the buttons on his shirt.  "Don't you have a Potter to coo over, anyway?" he sneered, recalling yet another bitchy conversation he'd overheard between Pansy and Blaise: something along the lines of Harry never wanting anything to do with one particular freckled sixth year, and wasn't it terrible for poor darling Ronnikins, having to put up with such an _unrefined_ sibling... Of course, given that Pansy's beloved boyfriend ate soup with both hands, Draco didn't feel that poor darling Ronnikins was a fit commentator on matters of ettiquette.  "Potter, Potter, Potter," he said now, playing it up for what it was worth.  "I'm sure the Boy Who Groped is missing you terribly."

"I'm sure he isn't," came the curt reply.  "And I don't miss him either, if that's what you're asking.  I've you to thank for that."

This sounded disturbingly like an accusation, or the prelude to a lovesick bout of tears.  Whichever outcome it eventually turned out to be, Draco wanted to play no part in it.  After seven years of listening in on the Slytherin girls' discussions, he'd suffered enough boy-related whinging to last him a life time.  With water-wrinkled fingers he nudged the spike of his belt into the appropriate loop, intent to get out as fast as he could.  Corridor slanging matches he could deal with.  Fist fights he could handle, no problem, especially with Vincent and Gregory's brawn to back him up.  Girls, on the other hand, were an unknown quantity and their premenstrual angst scared the bejesus out of him.

"Maybe I should explain it to you," the Weasley was saying.  "I spent five years of my life hung up on Harry Potter.  Did all the right things, too.  Brought him chocolates when he was sick, listened to him talk about stupid Quidditch, made his bed when he was staying at our house, even went around Hogsmeade with him during the holidays and watched him and Ron get sugar-highs and give each other wedgies in the main street.  And I was _happy!_  I accepted it, because I thought, idiotically, that I, Virginia Margaret Weasley, was in love!"

And I, Draco Marius Malfoy, am about this close to committing hari-kari.  He knelt to fasten the soggy laces of his boots. 

"I wrote him poetry!  I sung to him!  I did everything a man could ever wish for; I was _everything_ a man could ever wish for.  I cleaned his shoes.  I pressed his clothes.  I cooked him his favourite steak and kidney pie.  I wore low cut tops and short skirts and dropped my pens on the floor infront of him, and the bastard just walked by me.  By my bum!  I stopped wearing underwear!  I wore white t-shirts and accidentally on purpose walked infront of the sprinklers.  Once I even got Colin Creevey to push me into the lake!  And still no response from him!"

This little monologue had become rather more interesting.  Obsessive, yes.  Psychotic, indutibly.  But despite his misgivings, Draco couldn't help listening on.  Anything that involved wet t-shirts and no under garments couldn't be all bad.  Now fully dressed, he stood in his puddle and gave his wet hair an obligatory swiping with his drenched towel.

"He didn't even look at me when I pretended I'd locked myself out of the dormitory and forgotten to put on clothes.  Seamus was another matter, but Harry?  He just let me in again, smiled a stupid, brotherly smile, and left.  I wore a push-up bra.  I used make-up.  I made out with Parvati Patil at the breakfast table, and all he did was ask me to pass him the margarine."

Draco made a mental note to keep one eye on the Gryffindor table next morning.  

"The margarine!  Can you imagine how that felt?  My tongue is half way down Parvarti's throat, and he wants the fucking margarine.  Kinky, I said to him, and winked, hoping against hope that he might actually be a little less pathetic than I imagined.  And what do you plan to do with that margarine, wink wink, I said.  I just _love_ margarine in the mornings, giggle giggle, I said.  And what did he do with it?  Did he lather it on my thighs and lick it off?  Did he lubricate himself with it and enter me, bringing me to sexual heights hitherto unbeknownst to wizard kind?  No!  No!  I'll tell you what the prick did with it."

"He buttered his bread," said Draco automatically.

"He buttered his bread," the Weasley echoed, in a forlorn little voice.  "He buttered his fucking bread."

Draco stared at the wall.

"Which brings me to the real reason I've come here," the Weasley continued, pulling herself together with what seemed to be a surpreme effort of will.  "Before today, I thought I was a failure as a woman.  I thought I was a failure at making the man I loved fall in lust with me.  But now, thanks be, I know the truth, and the truth has set me free.  Free!  I'm a new person, as of today.  All these years, I'd heard people mentioning it, suggesting it, but I never realised... never guessed... until you, Malfoy, made it clear."

There wasn't much he could say to that.  "Glad to be of assistance?" he tried.  "All in a day's work?"

"Without you, I'd never have known Harry was gay," the Weasley chirped.  "So I just want you to know that I hope you're both very happy together.  Honestly, I do."

"Thanks," said Draco absently.  "Great."

"Bye bye for now then," said the Weasley pleasantly.  "And just be sure, on pride day, I'll be waving a very special banner just for you."

The sounds of her footsteps pattered off along the linoleum, finally fading into the distance.  The bathroom door creaked on its hinges, then thumped shut again.  Opposite Draco, the wall was pale and glistening with steam; the floor beneath his feet was a centimeter deep in water, and the towel over his arm had left a dark imprint on the material of his robe.  He wanted to leave the room to dry off infront of the common room fire, but a gradual sensation of uncertainty was keeping him put: he felt obscurely as if he'd missed something in their one-sided conversation.  At the back of his mind -- beyond the fantasies conjured by wet t-shirts and freckled buttocks -- doubt niggled away at him.  

What was it she'd said?  Something about Harry Potter, from what he remembered.  He replayed the last things she'd said over in his brain.  Pride marches, and banners, and being happy together with Potter, and Potter being...

Draco dropped his towel, swung his head out from behind the screen and stared desperately about.  "Excuse me, Weasley?" he yelled down the empty bathroom.  "What the fuck was that about me and Potter?"

*

While joining the ranks of the Aurors was foremost in Hermione's mind, the idea that one of her friends was in trouble was enough to turn her head from her studies and send her into a state of frantic reading that Dean called 'research-mode'.  For, in spite of Harry's assertions that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with him, Hermione Granger knew differently.  After explaining the matter in detail to her arithmancy teacher, Professor Vector, she was granted a pass to the library in order to research the particular nature of Harry's plight.  Vector had even given her some choice articles to inspect in the Restricted Section: books relating to the various Dark Arts spells that might convince a quite nice young wizard, who'd never shown any inclination toward foul play in the past, to sieze upon another student's genetalia.

Seamus was too busy smoking pot with Padma Patil, and Ron was off on another of his 'dates' with Pansy Parkinson (as far as Hermione could ascertain, this meant that he and Pansy would spend an hour or two snogging in the bushes by the Quidditch pitch), but Dean and Neville, ever the reliable partners, tagged along as she made her way through the library.  Neither of them were convinced that Harry was in dire straits, but Dean wasn't about to tell Hermione that, and Neville liked to feel useful, in whatever small way he could.  Carrying around a heavy stack of grimores wasn't exactly his idea of a good time, but it certainly beat sitting alone in the common room picking fluff out of his navel.

"Only I don't see why she's making such a fuss," he whispered cautiously to Dean, as Hermione teetered at the top of a ladder, straining to grasp a book on the topmost shelf.  "If Harry wants to touch other boys, it shouldn't really..."

"It shouldn't really be any of our business?" Dean suggested, as Neville trailed off.  He had his back propped against the ladder, keeping it steady as best he could without using his hands: his arms were laden with leather-bound volumes.

"Yes.  Exactly."  Neville nodded, tore at his lower lip with his teeth.  "I don't have a problem with that, if you know what I mean."

"Me either."

"So why are we here?" Neville asked.  "Why don't we just _tell_ her that it's not a good idea?  That it's none of our business?"

Dean made a wry face.  "I'll let you into a little secret, Nev," he said.  "It'll make your life a lot better in the long run.  See, when it comes to women like 'Mione, they're always right until they prove _themselves_ wrong.  And woe betide anyone who stands between them and self-enlightenment.  Get my drift?"

"I heard that, Dean," said Hermione in a muffled voice, clambering down the ladder with a thin volume clenched between her teeth.  With a gentlemanly tilt of his head, Dean stepped aside, and offered the better part of an elbow for Hermione to grasp hold of.  Undetered by his chivalry, Hermione ignored the elbow and made it to the floor unassisted.  "I don't like you talking about me like that," she said sharply, leading the way to the study tables at the library's centre.  "Either of you.  It's very frustrating for me.  If you've nothing nice to say, I suggest you keep it to yourself."

Neville and Dean exchanged looks.

"You're absolutely right," they said in unison.

*

After three hours of poring through texts, the trio had unearthed many interesting facts about Dark Magic and the various shapes it took, but precious little that pertained to Harry's specific condition.  There were spells that could turn a man into a monster, spells that could transform a person's entire perspective on life, so that good was bad and bad was good; there was even a footnote relating an incident in which a live demon had crawled inside the head of a respectable member of society and caused her to go mad.  But there was nothing about Malfoy-groping, or any of its potential derivatives.

"Useless, useless, useless," Hermione was hissing through her teeth as she read.  "Useless, even more useless, completely and totally useless, waste of my time useless, unbearably useless, just plain stupidly useless... For goodness sake, half of these don't even have an explaination of what they do.  Listen: _Maracus imbasus avangara_ -- what's that?  Or this one: _Arrakus venganus _--"

She twirled her wand boredly, and to her surprise a small pink object burst from the end and shot out across the room, missing Dean's left ear by less than an inch.

"Oops, sorry," said Hermione, blushing.

Very, very slowly, Dean turned his head.  There was now a small, sickle-sized hole in the wall some twenty metres behind him; a group of first years were huddled around it, pointing and gasping amongst themselves.  As he watched, a miasma of pink smoke puffed from the centre of the hole, and then evaporated into the air.  _That could have been my eye_, he thought weakly, turning back to Hermione, who looked positively embarrassed with herself.  Gently he reached over, prying her fingers from around the grip of the wand, and then set it aside on the table, far away from her.

"You know, if you really want to break up with me, I can think of a lot of better ways to go about it," he said shakily.  "Ones that don't involve homocide, I mean."

"I'm really, really sorry."  Hermione glowered at the page, as if it was the book's fault she'd cast the spell.  "It just didn't say what it would _do_."

"It's a book about Dark Magic," Dean snapped.  "What did you think it would do?  Make fluffy bunny rabbits?  Create party balloons?  They shouldn't even have books like this in the library -- it's just plain unsafe."

"They're from the restricted section," Hermione pointed out.  "They're restricted for a reason."

"Oh, I see that," said Dean thinly.  "I appreciate that.  I really do."

Beside him, Neville was staring at the grimore he'd been flipping through as if it was about to spontaneously combust.  Relenting a little (if only for Neville's sake), Dean patted his friend on the shoulder.  "It's okay," he told Neville.  "No harm done.  So long as you don't decide to say any dangerous Dark Arts spells aloud," he added, shooting Hermione a particularly poisonous look.

"I _said_ sorry," Hermione muttered.  "It's just that this feels so... _useless_.  None of these spells are what we're after.  Especially not _that_ one."  She made a gesture toward the smoking wall that was entirely too offhand for Dean's liking.  "We're looking for something that will cause people to behave in strange and mysterious ways.  Aside from the _Imperius_ curse, I can't think of anything -- and if it was _Imperius_, we'd have known about it.  The Ministry keeps close eye on any magical emmissions that even vaguely resemble the three primary curses.  This place would be swarming with Aurors by now if Harry was under that type of power." 

"Maybe it is," said Neville worriedly.  "Only they're hidden... camoflagued somehow..."

Dean made with pantomime gestures.  "They're behiiiind you," he sung.

Twitching, Neville stared over his shoulder.  Hermione sighed, flung up her hands.  "There's no point in this if you're going to be silly about it," she said.

On the verge of mentioning a certain someone nearly killing him not so very long ago, Dean clamped his jaw shut.  _Always right_, he told himself firmly.  _Always right until they prove themselves wrong.  And that's the way it's always going to be.  _

It was times like these that Dean wondered if dating Hermione was really worth the bother -- she was a nice girl, certainly, a sensible, intelligent girl, and one who got on remarkably well with his parents.  But with the prospect of joining the Aurors hanging over her head, not to mention their upcoming school exams, Hermione had begun to go... how had Seamus termed it?  _Off the bloody rails_.  Stress aside, Hermione would have to do some serious grovelling before Dean would consider taking her out to dinner in Hogsmeade again.

"Fine, sure, okay," he said shortly.  "Whatever _you_ want, 'Mione."

"Perhaps we should ask Malfoy about it," Neville suggested meekly, aware of the rising tension between his two friends.  Nervously he picked at the lip of a cover sticker.  "He says he knows everything about the Dark Arts..."

"Hey, hey, _hey_," said Dean, waving a hand infront of Neville's face.  "That's crazy talk, that is."

"I'm sure Draco Malfoy is very well versed in the Dark Arts," said Hermione tersely, "but I'm with Dean on this.  For all we know, he could be the person at the bottom of Harry's problem."  She paused, raising her chin to give Dean a stern look.  "Are you laughing?" she asked him.  "This is a very serious matter, you know."

"I'm not laughing at all," said Dean, who was.

"What I'm trying to say," Hermione said haughtily, "is that I don't think we can trust anyone but ourselves, at the present moment.  And I don't think we should let anyone else know about what happened to Harry.  Until we're sure of the cause.  And a solution.  We'll have to keep all our research well and truly under our hats."  She tapped the side of her hat-less head for emphasis.

"Bit late for that," said Dean, with a shrug.  "The entire school is already talking about Harry and Malfoy.  Rife with gossip, as you'd put it.  You should have heard the bunch of sixth years I overheard chatting in the loo.  Half of them are working on spells to protect their family jewels incase Harry feels amourous towards _them_.  And the other half are making stupid jokes about it.  Malfoy and Harry, sitting in a -- well, you know the rhymes."

"Very childish of them," Hermione sniffed.  "And Neville, stop that before you rip it."

Neville's hand shot away from the sticker as if he'd been burnt, profuse apologies spilling from his lips.  In a hapeless attempt to ammend things, he began to push the sticker flat onto the cover again, but Hermione gripped his wrist firmly before he could complete the task, pulling the book away.  The boys waited, expecting her to use one of the quick-fix spells she was accustomed to performing (especially when around Neville), but instead she simply held the book infront of her face, regarding the sticker as if it was some vital clue.

"I say," she said slowly, "there _is_ someone we could ask."

"Do tell," said Dean.  "We're on the edge of our seats, here."

Hermione ignored his sarcasm.  "Look here," she said, indicating the sticker with her index.  "This book was donated to the school libraries by _Severus Snape._  And he used to be a Death Eater, too.  I bet if we asked him where we'd find a cure to Harry's condition --"

"-- if Harry _has_ a condition --" Dean interjected.

"-- a cure to Harry's condition, he'd know precisely where we should be looking."  Hermione beamed suddenly.  "I'm sure he'd help us out, if we told him it was about Dark Magic, and fighting against Dark Wizards.  And, after all, Harry and he do share a... a _past_."

The expression on Neville's face was one of abject horror.  Amongst all his worst nightmares he could not concieve of a worse horror than that of approaching Professor Snape for assistance.  Dean seemed to be sympathetic toward his plight.  He rose from the table, patting Neville gently on the shoulder.  "Don't worry," he said quietly.  "We'll drop you off at the common room before we interogate the Sinister Mister Snape."

On their way out of the library, the three of them bumped into a very flustered looking Draco Malfoy.  The boy's blonde hair was drenched with water, the hems of his robes were soaking, and his fancy dragon-hide boots made squish-squish noises where he stepped and left small puddles of water -- a far cry from his usually well-presented self.  Sighting Hermione, he stepped boldly up to them (or as boldly as he could, in his condition), and gripped Hermione by the forearm.

"Weasley.  The girl one.  Where the hell is she?"

Hermione was non-plussed.  "Try the infirmary?" she suggested, squirming out of his hold.  "She's probably looking after Harry.  Why...?"

"Hopeless," Malfoy snarled at her, starting away from them.  "Absolutely fucking hopeless... Mud-blood wretches, the lot of you..."

They watched him go his squishy way in silence.

"Malfoy's acting funny," said Neville finally, to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Maybe Ginny got her hands on another diary?" Hermione murmured thoughtfully.  "I just wonder..."

"Oh for god's sake," said Dean.  "Don't you start on _that_."

* * * *


End file.
